Kare Kare
by Tinka
Summary: Two people on a dark, remote beach. How could they let go? My personal favourite.. Spoilers for "Requiem"


TITLE: Kare Kare (1/1)  
AUTHOR: Tinka (tinka100@hotmail.com)  
CLASSIFICATION: M&S Relationship, Angst.  
RATING: PG  
ARCHIVE: Bluefroggie & Gossamer, yes. All others, please ask.  
SPOILERS: "Requiem"  
SUMMARY: Two people on a dark, remote beach. How could they let go?   
After all they've seen and been through..  
THANKS: Much love is due to Penelopody. She's such a cool cat and the  
best beta a girl could hope for. And this one is for the bestest  
Kiwi of all - you know who you are. Thanks for showing me the  
landscape.  
DISCLAIMER: Characters used within are not mine. Neil Finn, Dave  
Dobbyn and Allen Curnow's work are used with love and respect. No  
copyright infringements intended.   
  
---  
  
Sea go dark, dark with wind,  
Feet go heavy, heavy with sand,  
Thoughts go wild, wild with the sound  
Of iron on the old shed, swinging, clanging:  
Dark with the wind,  
Heavy with the sand..  
-- Allen Curnow: Wild Iron  
  
---  
  
The darkness is slowly turning. A glimpse of light appears on the  
horizon. A lone figure stands on the bridge looking out on the  
water which is slowly becoming blue rather than black. Morning is  
breaking with a waltzing western wind. Slowly the man climbs down the  
steps to the iron beach. The steps are slippery with sea-spray and  
his unsure hands clutch the handrail.  
  
He hates this staircase. He comes down to the beach every morning,  
but the staircase is new. It is a stranger. He had it made last  
spring when he nearly fractured a hip falling down on the fickle  
ground, steep beneath his feet. He watches his head as he approaches  
the low-hanging pohutukawa branches. In the summer they bloom so  
magnificently that his sentimental heart cannot bring himself to  
cut them off.  
  
Besides, they belong here more than he does. Like the new staircase,  
he is a stranger too. Many summers have passed since he first  
purchased the house and moved out to the beach, but he still   
considers himself a guest. His neighbours know him and greet him -  
some he even likes talking to - but he is still painfully aware of  
his accent. It singles him out.  
  
The waves greet him with a roar as he finally steps down on the  
volatile ground. He chuckles to himself. The place would have been a  
surfer haven, if only it had been slightly more accessible. As it is,  
he is alone as he wanders past the dark, wet rocks and breathes in  
the saltiness of the ocean.   
  
He has a favorite spot further up the coast. An iron bench placed  
there for the few tourists who manage to find their way down the  
windy, tiny roads. It offers a good view of the beach and yet is  
somewhat sheltered from the biting wind. It may be early spring, but  
the cold winds persevere and his bones are old enough to mind. He  
nearly stumbles and curses under his breath as he sits down.  
  
He fumbles in his pocket for a crumbled pack of cigarettes and a  
lighter. He cannot smoke in the house and so he has ritualized  
smoking a single cigarette every day on that very bench. The smoke  
tickles his nose slightly, and its scent transports him to another  
time, another place. If he were to close his eyes, he would be there  
.. right now ..   
  
But things are not meant to be like that. He keeps his eyes open as  
he knows he must. He did not move to this place, this valley lit only  
by the moon, to reminisce about his less than glorious past. He had  
moved here to make peace with himself - to make peace with the world  
and to beg its forgiveness. He tried so hard back in his younger  
days, but failed so miserably, so unheroically. He tried to be a  
Grail Knight. He pursued his blind vision not seeing how the quest   
nearly destroyed him and the few things in life that he still cared  
for.   
  
As the cigarette perched between his fingers turns to ash, his old   
eyes acquire a distant look. He tries hard to forget, but on certain  
days - if the wind and the temperature are right - he remembers her.  
Tall, proud with curly brown hair. Bright eyes burning with pride as  
she solves a puzzle or discovers something once lost. His girl. He  
can trace her scent on the fresh sea breeze: roasted almonds with a  
touch of bergamot. He can almost hear her laugh in the rustle of the   
branches. He misses her with every inch of his body. His Hannah.   
  
The cigarette burns, stings his fingers. He lets the remains of it  
fall to the ground. A tiny bird - a fantail, his memory supplies -   
lands at his feet and curiously examines the ashes. Hannah had  
similar fluttering, small movements. She was always meant for  
something more important than him, yet there was a short time when  
he was allowed to hold her, console her. Probably the finest memories  
of his life as well as the saddest. He knows she hasn't survived the  
past 30 years. She never was meant to. If his life has taught him  
anything, it is that the Hannahs of this world are always meant to  
perish. They're rare gifts with higher purposes.  
  
The old man slowly starts to focus on the horizon again. It looks  
like rain approaching. The black clouds are gathering in the distance  
and the seventh waves grow stronger. Hannah fades before his eyes. He   
is accustomed to this. He is no longer young and the mind plays evil  
tricks on him. She is but one of the things which he lets himself  
remember, as she is also one of the things he chooses to forget  
quickly. His life has truly been one of paradox.  
  
He leans back against the railing. It is also paradoxical that he has  
ended up here. A dark, tormented beach at the end of the world. A  
beach inhabitable and yet people - mad scientists and even madder  
artists - have chosen to stay. Local legend talks of monsters hiding  
behind the horizon. In the old days he would have been interested.   
  
He closes his eyes - just for a moment.  
  
---  
  
You run from the river  
Though it long ran over you..  
-- Dave Dobbyn: Beside You  
  
---  
  
She is walking again and she is counting the steps of the staircase.   
It is slightly obsessive, but she needs real, tangible evidence that  
the world isn't changing too rapidly. She cannot be sure that the  
staircase doesn't change when she is not looking, but it seems to  
have a fixed number of steps. 39 - 40 - 41 .. A sigh of relief passes  
through her lips.   
  
She hesitantly steps down on the ever-moving ground shaped by the   
earth's whims. An earthquake rippled through the house just two  
nights ago and she heard that another tiny island has just formed in  
the city's harbor. Once she would have been delighted and rushed to  
find as much information about it as possible. She might even had  
ventured down to the city to see the new island still fresh and  
young. Now everything is different. She needs security and prefers  
curling up in a sofa to adventure.   
  
She is oblivious to the Tasman floating diligently towards her. She   
is focused on the tiny dark figure she can see ahead of her. She does  
not even notice the ocean foam forming around her ankles. Usually she  
is in love with the waves, but today is different. Slowly she walks   
towards the small iron bench where his body is placed. She knows his  
soul is elsewhere, as it has been for years. 30 odd years. Her soul  
has been lost somewhere along the way too.  
  
He does not stir when she sits down next to him. She notices the  
tiny cigarette fragment next to his foot and frowns slightly. It is  
too late to change his ways, but she really does wish that he  
wouldn't smoke. They both have too many painful memories of smoke  
lingering in the air. By smoking, he evokes memories they both have  
carefully tried to keep buried. Yet, she understands as she always  
has. He needs his ways of suffocating the ever-present pain just like  
she does. She just covers her scars with layers of paints. Their  
house is covered with water-colors of the beach, the garden, and the   
bush. She adores the dramatic hues of the pohutukawa tree.  
  
A sharp image of lovely auburn hair flickers before her eyes. Such  
magnificent colors and she doesn't even own a picture of her.  
Hannah. Everything was snapped out of her fingers by unknown men or  
abandoned as they fled their country to save whatever was left of  
their lives. She remembers it still so vividly in full technicolor.   
All the gory details. Still, back then they had a tiny hope to cling  
to and they were even vaguely happy for a while. They walked on the  
beach, explored the bush and bathed underneath waterfalls waiting for  
Hannah to return miraculously. As time passed, everything died. All  
hopes, all dreams. Yet, as Scully keeps telling herself, at least  
they still have each other.   
  
Her fingers gently interlace with his, waking him from his quiet nap.  
  
"You were sleeping, darling."  
  
He opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again. Instead he points  
to the distant horizon. She squeezes his hand. A rainstorm is coming.  
It is that time of year after all. That time of year ..   
  
"I wish you hadn't left me in the house alone. Not today, Mulder."  
  
It is his turn to squeeze her hand as he searches for the right  
words. He is usually so eloquent, but there are things he finds it  
difficult to talk about. So usually they do not talk about them but  
live in denial. It is much easier. So much safer.  
  
"I know, Scully. It is just that .. today of all days I had to go  
here. To think. I couldn't stand being locked up in the house. I  
needed the air."   
  
She cuddles closer and he automatically puts an arm around her. The  
gesture has lost most of its romantic meaning to them and has become  
a comfort instead.   
  
"It is her birthday today", she whispers.  
  
"Was. It _was_ her birthday today". He hates being cruel, but he  
needs to underline it. He needs to say it. Scully hates hearing it.   
It is one of the things that have quietly ensured their estrangement.  
  
"She's 34 years old today. The same age as I was when I gave birth  
to her. Isn't it extraordinary? We might be grandparents. Who would  
have thought that?"  
  
She stubbornly ignores his words like she always does.   
  
"She can't have survived. She can't. We nearly didn't survive and a  
child of four could not .. and when they took her away from us, she  
was nearly.." He chokes on the words as he remembers Hannah's face,  
drawn with inexplicable pain.  
  
"They took her away from us because we could not save her. But they  
had technology that would have .. we have both seen so many things.  
We have both experienced.. Mulder, how can you not believe?"  
  
He lowers his head into his hands. They have this discussion every  
year on this very date. He is tired, so very tired.   
  
"I'd rather not believe, Scully, because if I did, there would be  
this wonderful woman beyond the sea who I never got to know. I would   
rather not believe, because I want to treasure the four years I was  
lucky enough to share with her, instead of mourning the 30 years I  
was denied. And think of the world she would've inhabited for the  
past 30 years. We escaped that world.."  
  
"We didn't escape it, my dear. We simply avoided it. It is bound to  
catch up with us one day."  
  
The old couple sit in silence as the first raindrops land on their  
cheeks. He briefly kisses her head once graced by red sunshine, now  
by gray mist. It does not really mean anything much, but it is a  
token of their shared history. A symbol that not everything was in  
vain. A sign that somewhere along the line they must have done  
something right, although he struggles to find a reason for their  
lives.   
  
"Let's go home, Mulder. We accomplish nothing by sitting here."  
  
He nods and she tugs her arm around his. Slowly they make their way  
back to their private shelter against the rain. Two fragile, weary   
bodies covered with salty sea-spray and wrapped up in their own  
private universes.   
  
---  
By the same road to the same  
sea, in same two minds,  
to run the last mile blind or  
save it for later..  
-- Allen Curnow: The Loop in Lone Kauri Road  
  
---  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a homage to two special places on earth - the  
Piha and Kare Kare beaches on New Zealand's North Island. I was lucky  
enough to experience these two utterly isolated and incredibly  
poignant places, and I just knew I had to write about them. I've used  
lyrics by Neil Finn and Dave Dobbyn, two NZ musicians who either live  
or have recorded at Kare Kare and Piha, and two poems written by Kare  
Kare-based Allen Curnow.   
Feedback much welcomed at: tinka100@hotmail.com  
  
  



End file.
